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Friday, July 31, 2015

Who's sitting next to you?

I spent the middle of the day at Big O with a big man I’ll call Big Bill. He called himself Big Something Else, but maybe
I shouldn’t say.

It was not how I planned to spend my day.

But the right front tire on Mr. Plath’s truck heaved a slow, surreptitious
sigh overnight and relaxed into a rubber puddle. When he dashed out to catch up with his buddy
at the BART station for a 12:45 first pitch at AT&T Park, that tire was flat.

“Emergency!” he called up the stairs, since he goes through life with split-second
timing and there wasn’t a nanosecond to spare.
“Take me to BART, Honey, and call Triple A to fix this flat, please.”

As an FYI – I plan my mornings more loosely.
They hinge on slow starts with fresh home-made coffee, respectable
progress on the Book Club assignment, a few Words with Friends and then some
writing.

This is not to say I cannot swing into action when the situation warrants
it. And this was urgent. BART waits for no one.

In a flash, I jumped into my clothes, ran a brush through my hair, stepped
into my slip-ons and darted to the driveway feeling like Mighty Mouse. He had my car out of the garage and waiting. Like a precision racing team, we hit the road.

On the way to the station, Mr. P. sheepishly asked if I would spend some
time with the puppy since he’d be gone most of the day. Sure Honey.
My pleasure.

We executed the drop-off with a quick swing through the bus-only lane – my bad
– and he was on his way. I turned back
toward home and the flat tire and the puppy who refers to me as Second Best.

AAA came in due course, but did not fix the flat, or put on the
spare. Instead, the burly tow truck
driver with an Elvis complex and a suspiciously visible tattoo high on his
right front chest – yes, chest! I don’t
think the lapel of that jumpsuit was tucked in by accident! – pumped up the
tire and directed me to take the truck to Big-O to get it fixed.

But of course you have to get in line.
That’s where Big Bill comes in.

I’ll tell you how I first felt about Big Bill: I didn’t want to talk to him. Oh – he’s not the Big O guy who greeted me
immediately, ascertained the problem, took the keys to the truck and deftly worked
me into the queue.

No, Big Bill was a stranger. A big man
with a purple ear who came in after me and distinguished himself with his deep
voice, not upset but frustrated, he said, at having to spend so much time in
the Big O lobby.

Great. And the only empty chair was
next to mine.

I tried to shine him on at first. I smiled
tepidly when he eased himself down next to me saying he was tired of the
mysterious problem that kept resurfacing with his valve stem.

He shifted in his seat. He watched
shamelessly as I worked a crossword puzzle on my phone. “Boy, you’ve got good eyesight to see
something that small. Can’t you make
those letters bigger?”

Another meek acknowledgement. But
before I knew it, he caught my eye. Maybe
people would be calling my dad ‘Big Roy’ if he were still around.

I considered telling Bill his ear was purple, but he told me first. The medication for an irritation in his ear –
side effect of his hearing aid. It
stained his pillowcase too.

Oh? So I’d been in education?

He was in medicine. Radiology. Thirty-seven years. Retired from Kaiser twice – went back a while
when they were short-handed. Ran a
walnut orchard and orange tree farm at the same time he was reading X-rays. Same amount of water. Same fertilizer. Made good sense.